ONE LAST TIME . . . heroes of olympus

0.5

KATERINA SHOULD HAVE had it all.

She'd been the catalyst in the Prophecy of Eight — without her, they wouldn't have succeeded. Without her, Gaia wouldn't have fallen. Hell, without her, Gaia wouldn't have been dead asleep, thanks to her powers. Katerina Mikhailova was powerful. Is powerful. The Mikhailov family has always been powerful, according to Chiron. And her mother.

And, sure, she could've stayed in Camp Half-Blood until she was eighteen, like every other Mikhailov before her who'd carved their legacy into the camp. She could've gone to settle in New York as her mother did. She could've been the head counselor of the Hermes cabin for longer than the almost year she'd been it, she could've ruled the camp. Figuratively, of course.

Or, hell, her name even carried over to Camp Jupiter. She could've been a legionnaire, for ten years of her life, fighting monsters and doing something worthwhile and productive, just like her childhood best friend, Frank. She could've settled in the city of New Rome, gone to college, and lived her life there.

But none of those options that had been laid out for her ever since she stepped foot in Camp Half-Blood were options that she could pursue anymore.

Ever since that night when Katerina got into an argument with her girlfriend ( well, ex now ) Piper McLean, her future had been ruined, as well as the Mikhailov name. She heard it all of the time from her mother.

You are better than this, Katyusha. Our family didn't immigrate from Greece then Rome then Russia for you to end up like this, disgracing our name that has been ingrained into the demigod world.

But that part of her life didn't matter now. Katerina was back in New York to report after a job. Her mother had told her not to become a secret agent, but honestly she did not give a fuck, after that speech. Her life had been ruined already, so why not ruin it further by working for the government? It was the only thing that her mother didn't want for her, besides for, oh, disgracing the family. It was sort of part of their family rules, to not work for the government, after what happened in Rome, because of the Mikhailov ancestors.

And, besides, Katerina had worked hard for her title. It was hard rising up in the ranks as an Afro-Russian woman. She'd worked for years to become one of the best agents in the country. The Mikhailov name did work for a lot of things, though the government wasn't one.

She didn't even work for the government, despite this. Everyone just thought she did, and she told her mother she did, because she was spiteful. She worked for a private company that sometimes worked with the government, sometimes with criminals. Being a morally gray person was something that she was good at, which was surprising, considering her last name. Or maybe not that surprising.

Which was something her partner said often.

"You're a Mikhailov, Katya," Julia Feingold, Katerina's partner in crime ( literally ) said to her as they ate at an outdoor cafe. "Couldn't we go visit camp together? There's no way that you're going to get kicked out because you're Katerina fucking Mikhailova."

"Charming, Jules," Katerina quipped, crossing her arms as she put down her hot cocoa, glancing around for anything or anyone that she knew — agent life or demigod life. "You can go during your break, but I told you that I'm never going to go back there. Not after what happened after that night."

It was a sore subject for her. She'd only told Julia what had really happened once, with all of the full, gory, details. Since then, Katerina had insisted on never thinking about it ever again.

Which is why she's rarely seen anyone from the Eight in person — including Nico and Reyna — since her future was ruined. Katerina still had no clue how they were all alive. Well, maybe that changed. But she didn't know who was dead or alive, because she forced Frank, who she miraculously kept in contact with, Hazel by proxy, and Leo, who wasn't dead, in fact, to never talk about anything involving the Eight, unless it was little things. Leo moved to Chicago or somewhere around there. Frank and Hazel became praetors. Those types of things. Not death.